


Because Jellicle Can and Jellicle Does

by isitanxman



Category: Cats (2019), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Broadway, New York City, Original Character(s), POV First Person, POV Original Female Character, it's about cats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:47:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27976086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitanxman/pseuds/isitanxman
Summary: Fifteen-year-old Katrina Oswald's mutant powers manifest during a performance of "Into the Woods," kickstarting her journey to becoming the mutant hero Jellicle.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	1. Welcome, welcome!

A very meow-y Christmas and the happiest of holidays to [**Is It An X-Man?**](https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/is-it-an-x-man/id1460485634) co-host **Britt** , and to all our listeners! I belatedly realized you couldn't schedule chapters for future publication, so please accept this little note as a sign of things to come.

 **Because Jellicle Can and Jellicle Does** will launch on **December 21**. Keep an eye out!

_—Katie_


	2. Curtain Up

I always got fidgety ten minutes to curtain. Fluffing my hair, adjusting the scarlet cape that hung around my shoulders, checking my tights for runs. Our revival of _Into the Woods_ had opened to rave reviews two months earlier, but I was still petrified someone would catch on to the fact that I was a fraud.

I know—imposter syndrome, _hello_. I hadn’t stumbled into the role of Little Red Riding Hood. I’d goddamn earned it. But even all the classes, all the shows, all the work I’d done couldn’t make me feel like I knew what I was doing. Ten minutes before curtain, I was a wreck.

And then the house lights would go down, the words would ring out through the Winter Garden— _Once upon a time . . ._ —and everything else would disappear.

But, for the next nine minutes and twenty-eight seconds, I couldn’t stop adjusting my hair, my makeup, my costume. I wouldn’t lose myself in Little Red until I got onstage.

A stagehand had popped into the dressing room to give us the ten-minute warning only seconds before, and with our chorus of, “Thank you, ten,” the three other girls who shared the room with me began talking excitedly and filtering out to the wings.

“Coming, Kat?” Al, who played the Baker’s Wife, asked.

I smiled at her reflection in my mirror. “Right there.”

She squeezed my shoulder and then shut the door gently after her as she left.

I took a deep breath. Eight minutes and fifty-three seconds. Almost showtime.

There was another knock on the door. Before I could call for the person to enter—or leave me alone—the door opened, and James, our Baker, poked his head in. “Everybody decent?” he asked, his hand over his eyes and fingers spread just enough to reveal one peeking eye.

“Yep,” I replied, my voice a bit chirpier than usual because of the nerves. “Just me. I’m on my way out.”

“Just one question—got plans after the show?” he asked, flashing an all-American grin.

I shrugged. “Home, probably. Mom signed us up for a ballet thing tomorrow at eight.”

He winced. “Sorry to hear that. I have some friends seeing the show tonight, if you and your mom want to tag along for a little bit. Not sure where we’re going yet, but we can head your way—Upper East Side, right?”

I nodded and grinned. “That would be awesome. Thanks!”

He smiled back and saw himself out with a small wave. “Break a leg, Oswald!” he called through the door.

“Same!” I shouted back.

Mom was super strict about my hours. Any spare moment beyond homeschooling and the show was filled with classes—singing, dancing, acting, improv—or what she called “improvement activities.” That might mean going to another show or a museum, or taking a road trip to a park and taking a long walk. It was usually fun, but also absolutely exhausting.

It would take some convincing to get Mom to go along with James’ plan for after the show, but his mention of “friends” would sweeten the deal. He’d been in movies; he knew people. I hoped Ryan Gosling would be one of the friends who was tagging along. Maybe Zac Efron.

I lost myself in daydreams until I got my five-minute call, then hurried out to stage left. I’d spent all of previews week peeking out into the theater before showtime, watching people settle in for the magic we’d do onstage. It didn’t give me any less of a rush to sneak a look that night, too, for luck.

Soon enough, they announced that all cellphones should be turned off and the lights went down.

_Once upon a time, in a far-off kingdom, there lay a small village at the edge of the woods._

The music began, and we were off.

* * *

Everything was going well until Act 2. I killed my solo earlier in the show and enjoyed hanging out and listening to my castmates sing through their parts. I resisted the urge to peek into the theater again to try to spot James’ friends. By then, I was _convinced_ one of them had to be Ryan Gosling. I was going to tell him that I was also a bird.

Four of us—Little Red (me), the Baker, Cinderella, and Jack, of beanstalk fame—gathered onstage for “No One is Alone,” a beautiful melody about finding connections even in grief and loss near the end of the show. It was one of my favorite songs.

Jack and I listened to Cinderella and the Baker recount their hardships in song, the same as we had for the last eight weeks. But suddenly, something began to feel strange. My face and hands were tingly and it felt like someone was beating my brain with a hammer. My skin felt tight and hot. My throat hurt. The lights overhead were always hot, but now they burned into my eyes. I could smell sweat and anxiety in the air, as pungent as if someone was holding a bottle of fear sweat directly under my nose.

I was pretty sure I was going to barf on Cinderella. Was this what a migraine felt like? I’d never had one; I rarely got sick at all.

I missed a harmony with Jack, who looked at me funny. James was singing as the Baker, and he glanced at me, too. The concern in his eyes wasn’t acting; it wasn’t meant for Little Red. Did I look awful? What was happening to me?

My palms were sweaty and the boots felt tight on my feet and calves. My heart started pounding, from sheer terror and the pain in my head. I had read a book about spontaneous human combustion in sixth or seventh grade and I suddenly _wished_ I’d just vomit on my co-stars. I wanted to be the talk of Broadway, but not for bursting into flames during the finale of a successful revival of _Into the Woods_. Had it always been so hot up here?

The world exploded—or, at least, it felt like it had. I fell backward, writhing in pain, and heard my costume ripping. It felt like someone was tugging on my face, pulling my nose forward, and stretching and molding my hands and feet. I blinked at the ceiling, the spotlights swimming.

There were gasps and shrieks in the crowd, and my co-stars scrambled away. My vision went blurry, but I saw James running backstage and returning with our stage manager. “Call an ambulance!” someone shouted behind the curtains—but how had I heard it from all the way at the front of the house?

As suddenly as the pain began, it stopped. I rolled over and slowly pushed myself up on all fours. I realized I wasn’t on my hands and knees, but standing on my feet and hands. I opened my eyes.

These weren’t my hands. My fingers were covered in black and white fur and my nails had lengthened and sharpened into tiny scythes. I flexed my right hand, and the claws retracted.

I screamed and rolled to the side, away from James, our stage manager, and anyone else who was coming forward to help. I landed hard on my butt and examined the rest of my body. My costume boots were gone, ripped to shreds and abandoned on the stage, revealing feet that were more like wide paws, complete with pink pads underneath. The thick black and white fur covered my body; I could see it peeking through the holes in my costume.

“Kat?” James asked gently. “Are you okay?”

I inhaled deeply, trying not to panic, and again caught the harsh scent of body odor and decades of people sitting in the theater’s seats. I slowly brought my hands to my face.

There were whiskers.

I screamed—or yowled, more like a fighting cat than a scared human girl—and ran. I was _fast_ , bolting for the stage door and leaping around the security guy at the door. I exploded out onto the sidewalk, startling a few fans who had already lined up at the barricade for autographs. My nails—claws—came out, trying to find purchase on the asphalt, and I managed to turn tail and flee.

Mom was going to be so mad. I was so screwed.

I made it into an alley a few blocks away and leapt onto a dumpster, huddling against the wall. No one seemed to be coming for me. I was thankful. I needed a minute to adjust, the sights and smells and sounds of Manhattan overwhelming what I could only assume were heightened senses.

I took stock of what had likely happened to me. When my mom, or my grandma, was a kid, this might’ve seemed impossible, but my generation had grown up with people with extraordinary abilities, with heroes—the Avengers, the Fantastic Four. The X-Men.

Holy goddamn fucking shit, I was a _mutant_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, James is not James Corden. Or McAvoy, who I continually forget played Xavier.


	3. The Show Goes On

I could see in the dark. I had whiskers. I still had hair on my head, but my entire body was also covered in fur—rather silky, if I did say so myself. My ears had lengthened to points, more like cats’ ears, and it felt like I had more of a snout or muzzle than a face now. I had claws on my hands and feet that I could unsheathe by flexing my fingers and toes.

And, yes, at the base of my spine, there was a tail. It seemed to have a mind of its own, twitching with every distant siren or footstep.

I was still wearing my costume, and I pulled Little Red’s cloak tighter around my body, tugging up the hood. The show had to be over by now—they must’ve gone on, right? My understudy was ready for this kind of scenario. Well, maybe not _this_ kind of scenario, specifically, but her whole point was to step in if I couldn’t go on.

I needed help, and hiding wasn’t going to solve anything. I needed someone to help me figure out if I could morph—or whatever—out of this state, like the bad guys in _Scooby-Doo on Zombie Island_ , or if I’d be stuck as a cat-person forever. I really, _really_ hoped it was the first option.

I leapt from the top of the dumpster, landing lightly on my feet. Did this mean I’d have to move to Krakoa? Mom and I had just read an article about it in the _Times_ ; we’d even joked about taking a vacation there, if they were allowing humans to visit by the time my sixteenth birthday rolled around. It looks like paradise.

When we’d talked about it, though, I’d only wondered what the drinking age was on the island. Now, I was a mutant. But I didn’t feel like a Krakoan. I didn’t want to be in paradise if it meant Mom couldn’t go. She was all I had. And I couldn’t give up my career. All I’d ever wanted, since I was born, was to be on Broadway, and I’d finally gotten my chance. I couldn’t leave _now_.

I padded down the alley, back toward Fifty-First Street. Step one was to get back to the theater and talk to Mom. Step two was . . . I didn’t know. Maybe a doctor? Maybe I’d have to head to the gate in Central Park and see what they could do for me on Krakoa, as long as they promised to let me come back to the city.

One, two, skip-a-few, and step fifty-seven or whatever would be come up with a code name. I could go the _Warriors_ route—Darkpaw? Spottytail? Katrinashanks the Broadwaycat?

I was lost in thought, but a suddenly unfamiliar sound cut into my brain. My ears still twitched at every sound, but my brain had learned to process the scuffling of rats and the rumble of passing trucks and buses.

This sound was different, small and muffled. I paused and inhaled sharply. There were people at the other end of the alley. Their scents were distinct, unlike the faceless, formless masses of people roaming Times Square; I could lock on, because they were staying in one place. I smelled at least three, maybe a fourth—unless that was the rancid meat in one of the dumpsters.

I was a mutant, but I wasn’t a hero. I was wearing a ripped costume I’d probably now have to pay for out of my paycheck and I didn’t have a code name.

The muffled sound—heavy breathing and crying, I could hear now—became a desperate yelp, then a sharp crack. Someone was in trouble, and no one else knew it but me.

I took off my cloak and dropped it on the ground, silently moving back into the shadows, heading toward Fiftieth Street. I dropped onto all fours; it felt ridiculous for the first few steps, but then I locked onto the crime in progress and everything else melted away. This was who I was, who I was meant to be.

I crept up and hid behind another dumpster, taking in the scene before me. There were two guys, one of them holding a woman against the wall, the other holding what I assumed was her bag. He was rifling through her wallet, digging out her cash, cards, and ID. Things were probably only going to get worse.

I didn’t think; I leapt. I hit the back of the guy holding the woman and the surprise attack worked—we both hit the ground, the guy landing on top of me. I dug my claws into his shoulders and back and he screamed. I smelled blood.

“What the fuck?” his buddy shrieked, dropping the purse and wallet. The woman stood frozen against the wall, her eyes asking the same question.

“Eat a dick,” I snapped back, and tossed the first guy at him. As they sorted themselves out, I took the moment to grab the woman’s purse, stuffing her wallet inside and handing it to her. “You have your phone?” I asked her.

Shaking, she dug through her purse, he eyes never leaving my face, and then nodded. She held up an iPhone.

“Call the police,” I said. “Stay he—”

Something hit me like a ton of bricks. I didn’t realize it was one of the would-be attackers until he punched me in the face. I’d never been punched before, but it felt like I took it well. I’d also never punched anyone before, but I balled my fist and swung, connecting with the guy’s jaw. He crumpled on the ground.

I grimaced at him, and then at the woman, who was already on the phone with a 911 dispatcher. “He hit me first,” I said.

“Bobby!” his buddy shouted, stumbling to his feet. His eyes flicked between the guy on the ground and me, once, twice, and then he seemed to make a decision.

He threw himself at me, shoving me hard, and then burst into the crowd of people walking down Fiftieth Street. I hissed and followed, snaking around tourists and blocking out anything I didn’t need. You read words like “predator” and “prey,” and learn about lions and gazelles, or whatever. And everyone knows humans are supposedly the top of the food chain.

But it was different to live it, in my new form. I could see the guy, but I could smell him, too. I dropped onto all fours again and ran faster, springing off the subway entrance and only narrowly missing the guy. He turned right onto Broadway, headed back toward the Winter Garden, where I spotted lingering groups of people standing on the sidewalk.

A well-groomed man was chatting with James, and the guy I was chasing was heading straight for them.

“I guess I’m not the only music man in the group, mate— _ah!_ ”

I threw myself at the criminal, sending us both bowling into James’ friend. We tumbled around together, until I could finally pull myself from the chaos. I caught the criminal with my front claws and pinned him to the sidewalk, hissing.

“Hugh, are you all right?” James asked, alarmed, helping his friend to his feet. Once he was standing, both men looked at me. “K-Katrina?” James stuttered, his eyes wide.

I was panting, but already felt my heart slowing down. The guy on the ground was unconscious and I could hear sirens, definitely getting louder, coming closer. I didn’t know if I wanted to be an X-Man, but I guess I was a hero.

I turned and smiled at James. “Did you finish the show?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three guesses who James' friend Hugh is, mate.


	4. The Jellicle Choice

The police arrived a few minutes later, and a crowd gathered outside the Winter Garden. They put the guy I’d chased down in handcuffs and tossed him into a squad with his friend, who was still knocked out. A cop assured me he wasn’t dead.

The woman from the alley was there, too, on her way to the hospital to get checked out. “You . . . you saved me,” she said to me, taking my hand in hers and squeezing. “Thank you.”

I heard about three dozen iPhone making the ridiculous shutter sound, and there were a few flashes from the crowd, too. As the woman was led away by a detective, I heard shouts from the crowd and turned. Some of it was just coming from tourists, but I noticed a news van parked across Broadway.

“What’s your name?” a voice rang out. My ear twitched to my left and I turned to pinpoint the voice. It was some guy in a suit jacket, holding out a microphone. He had someone holding a very official-looking camera standing behind him.

“Uh . . . Katrina,” I offered.

He rolled his eyes. “Your cool name. Your _code_ name.”

Kat was my nickname, but it was too lame to use as a code name. I mean, Kat with a _K_? Come on.

Other reporters seemed to appear in the crowd, new phones and cameras and microphones being held out toward me. They wanted to know who I was, what I could do.

I panicked and said, “I’m Jellicle.”

And then I ran away.

* * *

I ran six and a half blocks uptown and wasn’t even winded by the time I got to the subway stop I needed. I was still in my costume and hadn’t bothered to stop to get any of my stuff from my dressing room, so I hopped the turnstile and waited a few minutes for the Q to arrive. It was only two stops after that, but I wished I hadn’t thrown away my cape and hood in the alley. Even in New York, a cat-girl gets some funny looks.

The apartment building where Mom and I lived was on First Avenue, a few blocks down and over from the subway stop, and I made it home in no time. I didn’t have my keys, but I climbed over a stone wall behind the building and dropped into the sad little concrete square my mom liked to call our “courtyard.”

We lived on the fourth floor—the top—of our building. I leapt for the fire escape ladder and caught the bottom rung, hauling myself up without having to pull it down. Mom had a bad habit of leaving our kitchen window open a crack to let in fresh air, and she usually forgot to lock it. So after climbing quickly to our window, I let myself in, then closed and locked it after me.

The apartment was dark and quiet. Just in case, I called out, “Mom? It’s me.”

Someone at the theater had probably called to tell her what happened; I assumed she was down there. There were probably approximately 1500 missed texts and calls stacking up on my phone. I hoped someone would give her my backpack so I could get my phone and the book I was reading—I only had like 15 pages left.

I moved around the apartment in the dark. I could see everything as if I’d turned on every light in the place, and the four or five squeaky spots on the floor beneath the pale pink carpet in the hall didn’t even shift beneath my weight. I made myself two hamburgers—rare, no buns, no cheese, no condiments—and then locked myself in my room. I didn’t want to deal with Mom the minute she got home.

These powers felt like a big cosmic joke, honestly. A Kat with cat powers? It was almost like I’d planned it. And my feline pedigree reached back farther than that. Mom was what most people would probably call a “crazy stage parent.” She’d been a performer, too, though she’d never made it to Broadway, and it had been my lifelong dream to make it because it had been hers. I loved it and wouldn’t have traded it for anything, but I understood how it might’ve looked a little coercive from the outside.

Anyway, one of the last roles Mom took on was Rumpleteazer in a touring production of _Cats_. That was where she met my dad, who, by all accounts was a bit of a—her word—tomcat. You might expect better of a Skimbleshanks.

With a family tree like that, I guess I should’ve expected to be a cat-person someday.

The relationship didn’t last, though he apparently made some kind of grand gestures when she told him she was pregnant. But he was gone before I was half-cooked. I wondered if he was a mutant, too. Mutations could occur randomly, but I kind of liked the idea of running into my dad poolside on the Island that Walks Like a Man.

I picked at my second hamburger and prayed to the universe that the nice mutants on Krakoa would let my—as far as I knew—entirely human mother visit me sometimes.

After my late dinner, I curled up at the foot of my bed and tried to forget the world. Unfortunately, it was only another half hour or so before Mom got home—I heard her stomping up the stairs before she got anywhere near our door.

“Kat?” she called, frantic. I heard her drop her bag—and hopefully mine—by the door and slam it shut behind her. It was almost midnight; our downstairs neighbors weren’t going to appreciate that.

“Katrina?” she tried again, moving from the living room into her room at the front of the apartment. She moved down the hall; lamplight flooded under the door and I growled. She tried my bedroom door, which I’d locked, and then knocked. “Kat? Sweetie?”

“I’m here,” I mumbled, just loud enough to be heard.

“Oh, Kat, thank god.” I could tell by her breathing that she was crying. “Someone in the box office called me about . . . everything. I went down to the theater, but you were already gone.” She paused. “There were reporters.”

“I know.”

“Sweetie . . . ” She paused again. “Are you okay? Do you want to talk about it?”

I sighed and closed my eyes. It felt like we were having The Talk all over again.

“I’m fine, Mom. Really. Just tired.”

I watched her shadows shift under the door. “Did you eat?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you need anything?”

“Like a litter box?”

“Katrina,” Mom said sternly.

“I’m allowed to make jokes. It’s my stupid mutation.”

“It’s not stupid, sweetheart. It’s . . . it’s unique. Mutants are very accepted in the world today.”

_Not when they shed_ , I thought, but didn’t dare say aloud.

“I’m fine, Mom,” I said again instead. “Can I just go to bed now?”

There was a long silence, then Mom finally replied, “All right. Good night, Kat. I love you.”

“Night, Mom. Love you, too.”

“Come get me if you need anything.”

“Yeah. I will.”

She stood outside my door for a full minute, then finally walked toward the kitchen.

I must’ve dozed off, because the next time I woke up, the apartment was dark and quiet again. I looked at my hands first, just to see, and found them still covered in fur.

I climbed out of bed and crossed to my door, listening there for a moment. I didn’t hear Mom up and about, and a quick glance at the clock on my bedside table told me it was after four in the morning. I unlocked the door and poked my head out into the hall.

I was a mutant. I’d officially helped stop a crime in progress. I’d given myself the world’s most ridiculous code name. That made me a hero, right? I liked the idea of it. I’d liked fighting bad guys, and I couldn’t have done such a bad job of it, since I got the two dudes arrested.

Heroes needed costumes.

I crept into the living room, then eased open Mom’s bedroom door. She slept across her queen-sized bed, taking up every inch of the mattress. I slunk to her closet and opened the door slowly—it made a godawful, high-pitched squeal when opened too fast; I’d learned that the hard way.

I crouched down and reached for the back of the closet, ducking under her dresses and sweaters. She had a few boxes of memories back here, I knew, including what I needed to start my costume.

Once I had what I needed, I closed the closet door and raced back to my room. I glanced behind me, making sure Mom hadn’t woken up, then unfurled her Rumpleteazer leotard. I smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kat's mom is totally played by Sarah Paulson, just FYI.


	5. Feline, Fearless, Faithful, and True

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it—the finale of Jellicle's origin story! Let us know in the comments here (or on Twitter or Instagram @isitanxman) if you want another adventure. I mean, you'll probably get another one eventually, anyway, but we'd appreciate the engagement.
> 
> Thank you for reading!!<3

I did my best thinking on the fire escape, so I finally changed out of my costume and into pajamas (careful to wear shorts, so my tail could hang out the bottom of one leg), then went there to ponder the rest of my costume. I’d need a mask, shoes or boots, maybe gloves.

I had been quietly pacing our fire escape for maybe twenty minutes when I heard a window below me open. I froze and looked down. A few lights were on in the building, but two floors below, where our landlord, Elaine, lived, the window was now open. Our landlord’s head peeked out, looking around, and then up. She smiled, then beckoned me down. I shrugged and started climbing down.

Elaine was an older woman, probably in her seventies. She and her husband had bought the building when they were first married, running the convenience store on the first floor. He’d passed away almost thirty years ago, leaving her to do basically everything herself, so I liked to help out when I could—taking out trash, sweeping the sidewalk outside, even just stopping to talk.

Two of Elaine’s kids and one of her grandkids lived in the building, too, but I was pretty sure Mom and I were her favorite tenants.

I crawled into Elaine’s kitchen window, perching on the sill while she puttered at her counter. An old-timey-looking radio on the table was playing NPR. Elaine carried a delicate little cup of tea to her kitchen table and sat down with a heavy sigh, then looked at me.

“I heard you had quite a night,” she said, as if she spoke to cat-girls all the time.

I shrugged again.

“Want to sit?” she asked, nodding toward one of the three empty chairs. She turned down the radio. “Help yourself to some hot water, if you’re a tea drinker.”

I was, but I wasn’t in the mood, so I just said, “Thanks,” and sat across from her at the table.

“It’s early to be awake,” I said.

“Oh, you know me. An early bird.” She slowly stirred lemon into her tea, raising her eyes to my face again. “So, you’re a mutant.”

“I guess so.”

“I saw you on New York One. They said you saved a woman from some muggers. You’re a hero.”

My tail twitched and I sat up straighter, preening just a little. “I was just in the right place at the right time,” I said modestly.

Elaine smiled. “What comes next?”

“I don’t know, honestly. I’ve been trying to think about that. I could go to Krakoa—you know, Krakoa?”

“I listen to the radio every night, kid.”

“Right. So, I could go there. Or I can stay here, maybe help some people.” I smiled a little, studying my hands. I curled my right hand and my claws unsheathed. “I don’t know if this is ever going to go away, or if this is my life forever. I don’t know if I’ll get to do shows anymore. I hope so. I really, _really_ hope so. But until I figure that out, I can do something else.”

Elaine was nodding along as I talked, and she sat quietly for a moment after I finished. “That’s very sensible,” she said, then her kind smile turned into a smirk. “Jellicle.”

I groaned and slumped over on her table. “I don’t know what came over me.”

She laughed. “You did your best in the moment. It’s better than Kat-with-a-K.”

I lifted my head and smiled at her. “That’s what I thought, too.”

“Are you feeling okay?” she asked. “Do you need anything?”

I was about to say no, but then held up a finger to take a moment to think. “Any chance you know how to sew?”

* * *

I crept back up to our apartment around seven-thirty, but found out Mom was awake and had closed the window on me. I knocked on the window to get her attention and she screamed, spilling coffee all over her bathrobe and the linoleum kitchen floor.

She put the mug on the counter and hurried over, opening the window so I could just squeeze in.

“Katrina, I thought you were in your room!” she shouted as I climbed inside. I resisted the urge to rub her leg to make her like me again.

“I went to see Elaine,” I replied, standing up straight.

Mom and I looked at each other for a long moment, and then Mom pulled me to her for a long, tight hug. I hugged her back, and I think I may have accidentally started purring, because she eventually pulled away and looked at me a little funny.

Mom kept one of my hands in hers, leading me to our kitchen table. I pulled a chair over and sat down right beside her. She smiled at me, but her smile quickly dissolved into tears.

“I was so worried about you, sweetie,” she said, sniffling, as tears ran down her cheeks.

“I’m okay, Mom,” I assured her. “Truly. I have no idea what’s going on, but I’m okay.”

She laughed at that, and wiped tears off her chin. “I have no idea what’s going on, either. And I really wish you hadn’t run off into a dark alley in Midtown.” She put her other hand on my cheek. “But I’m proud of you, sweetheart. So proud. So, so proud of my brave, talented . . . very soft daughter.”

I swatted her hand away and we both collapsed into laughing fits.

When I’d gotten myself mostly under control, I asked, “You aren’t a secret mutant, are you?”

She considered that. “Not as far as I know. But I had an uncle with an extra toe.”

I made a face.

“I’m sorry things happened like they did,” Mom said, switching back to her serious parent tone. “I wish you hadn’t had to go through all that onstage like that, and all by yourself.”

“It was . . . scary,” I admitted. I looked at our hands, resting on Mom’s knee, and inhaled deeply. “It hurt. But I’m fine now. I just think I’ll need help.”

“Training,” she said, nodding slowly. “And to know people like you.”

“But not right away,” I added hurriedly.

“Sweetie—Katrina. You can go to Krakoa whenever you want or need to.” Mom leaned in and hugged me again, stroking my hair. “I’ll find you whatever classes or schools or groups you want. You’ve trained to be the best goddamn Broadway performer out there, and you’ll train just as hard to be the best goddamn superhero there is.”

I felt tears welling in my eyes and gripped her shoulders tightly, careful not to let my claws out. “I love you, Mom. I don’t know what comes next.”

She was breathing slow and deep, and I tried to match the rhythm to calm myself down.

“You take a few weeks off from the show,” Mom said. “We talk. We take it slow. You learn how to be Jellicle—how to be you.” She paused. “Why did you pick that name?”

“Ugh, _Mom_ ,” I whined, pushing her away.

“It’s a little silly, Kat. Honestly.”

“Mom, I _know_ , okay? There were reporters and I just said what came to mind.”

“Jellicle,” she said again. She was either going to laugh or cry again. “Because jellicles can and jellicles do?”

“Because jellicles can and jellicles _did_ ,” I shot back. “I’m putting on a different kind of show from here on out.”

Mom grinned and patted my cheek. “Atta girl. Want some coffee to kick off this brave new world?”

“Can cats have coffee?” I asked, turning to watch her cross to the counter.

“Take small sips while I Google it,” Mom directed, refilling her mug and filling a second for me. She brought both to the table, and finally noticed the paper bag I had been holding in my right hand. Part of the costume was hanging out of it. Her eyes went wide. “Oh, Kat. Oh, sweetie, no—”

I followed her eyes, then, beaming, pulled out and held up the black leotard. Most of the extra fur (and the tail) had been removed, and Elaine and I had managed to fashion gloves and a mask from a golden yellow skirt I was never going to wear again. I had gold boots that would complete the outfit, and if I was feeling frisky, some old ears from a last-minute Spirit Halloween cat costume I’d thrown together in seventh grade.

“Jellicle did,” I told her, still smiling. “The show must go on.”


End file.
